And Marchand would really rather be there too. If the audience didn’t contain anyone important, Bard Marchand was not particularly interested in putting in more than a token appearance.
He’d have to do something, of course. He was the famous Bard Marchand. There was no way he’d get out of some sort of performance. But it would be short, and there would be no encores.
“They haven’t given me any solo at all,” Lena said tearfully. “I just found out today. All I have is my part in the chorus.”
The schedule still hadn’t been set this morning. There were a lot of Bardic Trainees, all of them wanted solos, and it had been decreed that the only fair thing to do was wait until the last minute to decide who would be performing what to allow for people suddenly improving. Mags blinked. “What? Why?”
“They said it’s because I froze at the Contest,” she said in despair. “And they said it’s because I chose such a simple song for the Contest. They said I’m not ready for such a big audience.”
Now, Mags knew very well that the only Trainees at Lena’s level who were not getting a solo were the ones who were performing in some sort of small ensemble or who had specifically asked to be let off. He tried to put a good face on it, although inwardly he was angry. If Lena had known she wasn’t going to be given a solo, she could at least have gotten into one of the smaller groups. She was well liked among the Bardic Trainees, and when she sang in a group she never tried to overwhelm anyone else. People appreciated that. But he throttled down his temper and tried to put a good face on things. “Well, ye are summut shy,” he told her. “Could be they thought they was doin’ ye a favor, could be they reckoned ye’d be able t’ enjoy the festival w’out getting’ yerself all over pothered worritin’ over yer piece.”
She shook her head and wiped her eyes. “I’m probably just not good enough,” she said shakily. “Not like Farris.”
He drew a complete blank at the name. “Farris? Who be Farris?”
She left off pretending to play, and fished out a handkerchief. “Farris Grevner. He’s new. He’s Father’s protege. They gave him three solos.”
Mags felt his temper flaring and threatening to escape the leash he had put on it. If Mags had had Bard Marchand in front of him at that moment, he’d have flown at him and broken his nose for him. It was bad enough that half the time Lena’s father seemed to have forgotten that she even existed, and the other half used her to get to people he deemed important—like Mags himself, back when he’d saved Bear from that assassin and when he’d been the first “star” of a Kirball team. But to take on a protege? When his own daughter was right here and would have cut off her own hand to get some approval from him?
Then to give the boy three solos in the concert and Lena none?
It was beyond belief.
“Father can’t show me any favoritism,” she said, her voice sounding wretched. “I understand that. Everyone knows I’m his daughter, and he can’t treat me differently than anyone else. It’s not right—”
“ ’S also not right t’give his Trainee three solos,” Mags replied, voice thick with indignation. “Tha’s th’ same sorta favoritism!”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter!” she exclaimed tearfully. “One, three, the only thing that matters to me is that I didn’t get any!”
Mags patted her hand helplessly. There wasn’t much he could say or do at this point. It was too late to ask to be included in a small group; even her best friends wouldn’t do that without at least a little time to rehearse. All he could do was to let her cry on his shoulder and remind her that even if it had been meant as a slight, she was still going to get to enjoy the last day of the festival without getting all of a knot over her piece.
And to rein in his own temper, tight. He had to think of something to distract her. He wouldn’t leave her to sink in misery.
Another of those welcome breezes sprang up, cooling his head and helping him to cool his temper.
“Jest go give yerself a wash,” he suggested. Then, as he wished that Bear was here, something else occurred to him. One sure way to distract her would be to give her something else to think about. “One’a Bear’s relations turned up. Dallen says ’tis his older brother. He got ambushed by some’a th’ other Healers ’fore he could make a pother, but you gotta know he’s gonna chew on Bear afore he goes home.”
“That’s true,” Lena replied, looking faintly alarmed and drying her tears on her sleeve.
“Well, reckon Bear’s gonna need some coolin’ an’ a friendly face, an’ I misdoubt th’ one ’e’ll wanta see is mine.” He put a little force into his words, and she nodded. He was thinking furiously now, trying to figure out if Marchand had done this to his daughter out of anything other than sheer lack of caring about what she thought or what happened to her. And what if it wasn’t Marchand at all? What if this new pet of his was behind it all?
“An’ look ye, if some’un did mean ye t’get hurt by this, well, if they see ye cryin’, ye jest gi’ ’em what they want. Eh? So don’t.” He made her look at him. “Mebbe ’tis Farris. Mebbe ’e wants ye t’feel like ’e’s better nor ye. Mebbe ’e wants t’lord it over ye. Eh? Mebbe ’e’s the mean-natured kind. We already know ye got all three Bardic Gifts. Mebbe ’e on’y got two. Or mebbe ’e ain’t mean-natured, but ’e’s feelin’ pressed, ’cause yer th’ one with the Marchand name and ye got all three Gifts an’ ev’one knows it. So ’e pressed fer all th’ attention. So. No matter what, ’e don’t deserve no reward of makin’ ye feel shamed an’ bad.”
She blinked, and looked at him in a way that suggested she was shocked. Certainly that had never occurred to her.
Well, a’course it didn’t. She never had t’fight fer nothin’ till she got here. While this sort of thing was very different from the daily, frantic scrabble for food and shelter and even the tiniest bit of comfort that Mags had endured for most of his childhood as a mine-slave, the motives were much the same, and he recognized them for what they were.
“Now, best fer ye t’do is sit down an’ have yerself a hard think,” he told her firmly. “Lookit how good this is fer ye. Ye got no pressure. Ye want t’ play fer folks, well, ye kin sit down jest ’bout anywhere an’ do it, like ye bin. An’ enjoy it wi’out havin’ t’ match up wi’ any’un else. So there. Git a wash. Make yersel’ pretty. Go take a nice corner an’ git a liddle audience. Make ’em happy. Be happy. Then come git dinner wi’ me an’ the rest and hev all yer favorites ’cause yer stomach ain’t in a knot, thinkin’ ’bout the concert.” He smiled wickedly. “An’ then—once yer fulla strawberry tart an’ cream, bacon-an’-egg pie, cake—then ye go by Farris. Betcha ’e’ll be green as grass, thinkin’ ’bout that concert an’ three solos, an’ ’e won’t hev been able t’eat. An’ ye smile at ’im, and wish ’im luck and mean it.”